Hellpit
by WonderStarLord
Summary: Welcome to the Hellpit, a dumping ground for unfinished and/or abandoned stories. Feel free to pick from this rotting carcass for your own purposes.
1. The Last Son and the Final One

**The Last Son and the Final One**

Disclaimer: Don't own a thing!

Pairings: Cute plus adorable plus (a dash of) cannon. Some definite Buffy/Clark infatuation, but will it ever actually turn into anything?

Notes: This story was written a bajillion years ago (pre- _Smallville: Lantern_ , hence Hal) and barely edited, so apologies in advance.

* * *

 **Summer of 1990**

Smallville's happiest married couple stood near the counter in Fordman's Department Store on Main Street. They patiently waited in line to purchase some new kitchen appliances.

"Jonathan, where's Clark?" Martha Kent asked worriedly, her vibrant red hair flying through the warm summer air as she spun around searching the shop.

She knew that they should have left him on the farm. The wonderful little boy that Mr and Mrs Kent adopted last fall, after the devastation of the meteor shower, had disappeared from plain sight. Clark had toddled off somewhere, which was a definite cause for concern.

Jonathan and Martha's son was special. He was _different_. Clark Kent wasn't exactly from around Smallville, the state of Kansas or, quite possibly, anywhere near the Solar System.

The 1989 meteor shower had changed so many lives. Most residents of the close-knit community had theirs taken a turn for the worse, whereas the Kent family was blessed with the most precious gift they ever could have hoped to chance upon. An endearing young boy with thick black hair and brilliant blue eyes who had literally fallen from the stars.

The Kents knew they should have felt guilty that Smallville's ultimate day of death and destruction was their happiest. So many good people were killed before their time was up. Mr and Mrs Fordman Snr and their youngest, Lolly, were brutally hit by a gigantic cluster of space rock that took out an entire suburban block. They had died instantly. As did Lewis and Laura Lang in the middle of Main Street, orphaning a crying three-year-old in a pink fairy princess costume.

Martha smiled to herself whenever she thought back to the moments before the meteors rained down upon the small farm town in an epic hailstorm of fire. Little Lana Lang was sitting on the counter in Nell's Bouquet, where the Kents were buying tulips, with her wings and her wand. Her huge, innocent eyes blinked up at the kind red-headed woman as the three year-old girl asked if she wanted to make a wish. Not long after that, Clark came into Jonathan and Martha's lives.

"Clark!" Mrs Kent called out. "Clark!"

Travelling at such speed so that he was almost an inhuman blur, a twinkly-eyed boy ran up to his parents. He tugged on Martha's pant leg. Clark's face was flushed with splotches of red. A look of awe and fascination was etched upon it.

"Mommy, Mommy, I think I saw an angel!"

The mother felt relieved and bent over, hands resting on her knees. Martha was thankful that no alarming incidents had occurred during the time he wandered off. She was worried that someone would find out about Clark's uniqueness and take him away. Jonathan greatly shared her concerns.

Martha was curious about Clark's excitement. Her son nodded enthusiastically. She had never seen his bright, beautiful smile this bright and this beautiful before.

"Really, honey?"

Increasingly animated, Clark's head shook up and down over and over again.

"Where?"

The three-year-old boy eagerly pointed toward a bare section near the back of the modestly-sized establishment where two young, blond children were playing. Or, more specifically, where one blond child tossed a toy football and another happily sat atop a pile of boxes, chattering incessantly and energetically swinging a pair of tiny legs.

The older child was Whitney Fordman, the owner of the department store's only son. He insisted to be called by his middle name, petulantly deeming his first too "girly."

Whitney wore his yellow blond bowl cut with a straight middle part. He enjoyed the scarce time he'd gotten to spend with his little cousin that lived far away in California. He didn't see her often but had regarded himself as a protective big brother figure. He was well practiced in playing the part for their other cousin, who also lived in the small farm town.

The younger, merrily sitting upon her haphazard throne of folded cardboard, was only in town for a couple of more days. Her name was Buffy Summers.

Even though the Coast City native only visited Smallville for a few weeks during the summer, nearly everyone who frequented the main parts of town knew the bubbly, bouncing girl – at the very least, by sight. She was a memorable personality, always talking and asking questions to whomever happened to walk by her on the street. Buffy Summers never let a dull moment pass in her presence.

Clark had never seen the pretty blonde girl before because he was almost always kept on the Kent Farm by his parents. Jonathan and Martha were very watchful of their son. They had sheltered him from a lot of the outside world and the people who would, no doubt, exploit him.

Buffy was the kind of effervescent child who had an extraordinary amount trouble going unnoticed. She had a dazzling smile that was able to light up any room and possessed an engaging, lively personality that made it impossible not to brighten any grouch's gloomy day. Buffy Summers was a lot like Clark Kent in that way. They both shined through the darkness in other's lives like the most startling sunlight and the most captivating moonbeams.

"Is that a real angel, Mommy? She looks like what I think an angel is supposed to be, only … prettier."

Martha smiled knowingly. It seemed that her young son had his first crush, even if he didn't know what such a thing was yet. She wasn't too concerned about having to intervene, for the sake of keeping her son's secret. The situation was not a worry because Buffy Summers lived in Coast City year-round. She was never in Smallville for too long.

Mrs Kent surveyed Buffy, who wore a knee-length white dress adorned with a daisy chain belt made with real, interlinking flowers. She had fashioned it with her other cousin yesterday in the Johnson family's backyard. She used her relatives' beautifully blooming garden as the weave's source and refused to throw the daisy chain away until its white flower petals had curled up and completely died.

Martha crouched down and leaned closer to Clark. She spoke softly into his tiny ear. "What to do you think, sweetie?"

"I think she is one, Mom."

Martha Kent somewhat agreed with her son. The frothy white dress she wore only added more fanfare to her undeniable combination of angelic features. Buffy's hair was silky and gleaming. It glowed gold, despite the dim fluorescent lamps that lit up the back of the shop where she sat. Her small, heart-shaped face had a youthful and naive beauty; and her hazel-green eyes held an unwavering sparkle.

"I think she is an angel," declared Clark Kent.

* * *

 **Summer of 1993**

"MOM!" cried a frustrated little girl. Her shiny yellow-blonde hair was tied into two long pigtails. Wandering alone around Quinn's Market, the young girl couldn't find her mother anywhere. She impatiently tapped a platform sandaled foot on the black and white chequered, linoleum floor.

Buffy Summers vibrated with boundless energy. She was bored and circled the store twice more before giving up. In the end, she opted to pace up and down the same section instead of aimlessly roaming about like a moronic poop-head. She crossly folded her tiny arms and waited next to a gumball machine near the market's glassed front entrance.

She needed to ask her mom for some money so she could win something from it. Why? Simply because she wanted to. Buffy was used to getting whatever she felt a fleeting fancy for and refused to be treated any other way.

Irritated, Buffy blew away the chunk of sunshiny strands that had flopped onto her honey tanned face when a dark-haired boy who wore a plaid shirt and faded jeans walked up to her. He was very cute – she had never bothered with the mandatory 'boys have cooties' stage of childhood development and precociously bounded right past it.

Not a regular resident of Teenytown, she didn't recognise him. Buffy had visited the small town for years, but usually only ever in the summer and for the occasional festive season. She didn't know absolutely everybody there was to meet regardless of its practically nonexistent population. The boy did look a little familiar, though.

He shot her a sweet smile and took a rusty quarter out of his pocket, which he placed in the slot. A plastic ring encased in a clear sphere fell out from the machine's toy dispenser.

He brightly looked down at Buffy. He was well over a head taller than her and had bright blue eyes that were almost the exact same shade of the more intensely coloured squares on his well-worn button-up. His eyes met Buffy's large hazel-green ones as he took the plastic ring from the metal dispenser of the prize-toy machine and handed it to her.

The boy in plaid had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. They were unearthly and captivating. The girl nearly couldn't bear to look away from them.

Buffy flashed him a radiant megawatt smile in thanks. Without a word, she chastely pecked him on one of his rosy cheeks and happily skipped away, her gift from the gumball machine in hand. She left him standing still and star struck, watching her bouncy blonde pigtails sway behind her in the pleasant summer air. A deep crimson flush had coloured his face.

Everyone was so nice in this isolated farm town filled with fields upon fields of corn. Buffy Summers decided, then and there, that she liked Nowheresville. Even if the place was two hours on the freeway away from modern civilisation.

* * *

 **Summer of 1995**

"Oh sweetheart, I've just heard the most terrible news," Martha sadly told her eight year-old son.

Clark, quite tall for his age, looked up at his sorrowful mom with his big blue eyes. She hugged him tightly. If it weren't for his _special_ abilities, Clark Kent was sure that he would have had trouble breathing by this point.

"What is it, Mom?"

Martha Kent sighed. "It's a girl in your class, Celia Johnson. She was hospitalised in Metropolis General because of the nasty flu that's been going around. She passed away late last night."

"Lana's friend?" he asked concernedly. Clark was worried and wondered how Lana Lang was doing. Celia was one of Lana's best friends.

Life only ever seemed to kick her in the teeth. Death appeared to taunt and follow Lana wherever she went. Smallville's beloved (fairy) princess had suffered through so much tragedy already.

"I'm afraid so, honey. It's all so sad. Apparently her cousin, Joyce Summers's daughter, was in the room with Celia when it happened. You remember Mrs Summers, don't you?"

Clark thought back and remembered a friendly woman with blonde hair and a soft voice. That nice lady usually came to town and visited his parents during the summer. He didn't know that she had a daughter.

"She didn't take it well and hasn't stopped crying since it happened," explained Martha.

"I didn't know that Celia had another cousin." Clark's brows furrowed. "One that's a _girl_."

Martha smiled affectionately at his inquisitiveness with a little humour hidden behind her eyes. Apparently Clark had no idea that the _angel_ he saw in Fordman's Department Store many years ago and Celia Johnson's cousin from California were one and the same. "She's not from around here. She lives in Coast City, but occasionally comes to Smallville during the holidays with Joyce."

"How is Mrs Summers doing?" Clark questioned, genuine care apparent in his tone. He was raised to be a very compassionate and considerate boy. "We should do something for the Johnsons. I can help you peel Granny Smiths if you want to bake them a pie."

"Sure, sweetie. I think baking them a pie is a wonderful idea."

Clark beamed. It was important to him to help other people, and he enjoyed doing it. "We should make a couple more, as well. One for the Summers family and another for the Fordmans, too."

Martha hugged Clark again for his sweet suggestion. He was such a wonderful, thoughtful boy.

* * *

 **Fall of 2000**

"Don't be such a jerk, Jordan! Like, seriously! Enough with the pom-pom jokes! You're ruining my happy day."

A grinning twelve-year-old boy who proudly sported a loosely-fitting, brown leather jacket and a mischievous face filled with mirth grabbed the purple tuft of loose plastic in Buffy's hand. He waved it around and did his mock impersonation of a cheerleader. She rolled her eyes and swatted him on the head with the yellow pom he hadn't taken.

"Why would I do that?" he laughed. "I think I'm hilarious."

"Like, of course _you_ would …"

"I also think, and know as a matter of fact, that I'm good-looking, athletic, insanely handsome, witty, largely attractive, charming and good-loo―"

"I, however," she cut in sharply, "totally, totally don't."

Buffy snatched back her purple pom back and shoved him lightly. He nearly fell off the outdoor bleachers but Hal Jordan simply laughed harder. The newly official Hemery cheerleader scowled, but that quickly turned into a smirk. He hadn't seen what she did.

Buffy had noticed a certain striking, blue-eyed girl approaching the grassy field in front of them. Her long, black hair messily pulled back into an unfussy low ponytail, she walked onto the verdant turf in her purple and yellow soccer uniform.

Buffy knew exactly how to shut her annoying friend up.

"An opinion that I _so_ share with _Carol_ , if I'm not mistaken."

Hal's loud and obnoxious laughing ceased. "Low blow, Summers. Low blow."

"I know, right?" It was Buffy's turn to don a cheeky expression. "But, hey, you make fun of me for being a cheerleader, I poke fun at your obviously obvious and hysterically hysterical itty-bitty boy crush on Carol Ferris that is so old, it predates American capitalism."

Hal crossed him arms, upset.

"Ooh, and don't forget your ego," she added unapologetically.

He wasn't that obvious, was he?

"She thinks you're a complete idiot, you know."

"Really?" he asked casually, playing it cool. "I could care less."

Hal's ability to wear a fearless shell coated in nonchalance and indifference was one of the few talents he had up on his closest female friend – a handy skill to have at Hemery. Buffy was never good at hiding her emotions. She wore her heart on her sleeve for the whole world to see.

Buffy tried to ignore the troublemaker lounging beside her. Listening to her own internal or external monologue – it didn't really matter in her self-important opinion – was usually far more interesting than anything that anybody else had to say. Except for, perhaps, the Jordan boys. But only on occasion. "Well, not an 'idiot', I guess."

"Really?" Hal repeated. He let the tiniest smidgen of hope escape his lips that time.

"'Childish' is the word that Carol would choose."

Hal's face straightened, his voice sarcastic. "Ha, ha."

"The me that is Buffy Summers: future cheerleading captain of Hemery High, however, would way more rightly use the term 'total screw-up'."

"You're so funny!" he drawled flatly.

"Well, like, duh! Very, very. I am me."

"And modest," added Hal.

Buffy scoffed. "Like you're any better, Jordan!"

* * *

It was a pleasantly sunny afternoon in Coast City, California. Walking down the front stone steps of Hemery High School was a collective of gossiping girls. Walking in the middle of them all, at the front of the prissy pack, was a short, svelte fourteen-year-old who was, without a doubt, the prettiest one there. She held a surprisingly commanding presence which was sickeningly coated in sugar and spice and everything nice, creating the perfect bubble-brained bobble-head. She was obviously their leader.

The girl had long, yellow-blonde hair that reached past her waist and was meticulously styled at the front to create mini bouffant-like poof. She carelessly sucked on a strawberry lollipop.

"So, I'm like, 'Dad, you want me to go to the dance in an outfit I've already worn?'" Buffy re-enacted the totally dumb conversation she had with her father the night before in an exasperated voice whilst waving around her lollipop. "'Why do you hate me?'"

"Is Tyler taking you?" one of the girls excitedly asked her.

Buffy looked at the girl disbelievingly. "Where were you when I got over Tyler? He's of the past. Tyler would have to crawl on his hands and knees to get me to go to the dance with him – which, actually, he's supposed to do after practice, so I'm gonna wait."

She popped the strawberry sweet back in her shiny, lip-glossed mouth.

"Ohhhhkaaaaay," the question asking girl sheepishly replied, secretly unsure of how she was expected to keep up with Buffy Summers's love life. The blondest blonde in Coast City – possibly even California, if it weren't for a particular billionaire heir from Star City – practically had a new boyfriend every other week.

She had been that way with boys ever since she and Jack Jordan split up for (what everyone could only pray was) the final time in a very messy and very public affair. It had happened a week after the notorious couple was crowned as Hemery High's Homecoming King and Queen. There was a massive food fight, which all of the other students joined in on, that broke out in the school cafeteria. It was Buffy and Jack who had started it.

Buffy's group of It-girl subordinates made their leave for home. Or the beach. Or the mall. Probably the mall.

"See you later."

"Call me." Buffy girlishly wiggled manicured fingers on the hand that didn't hold her trademark lollipop, waving and saying goodbye. She always had a lollipop on her. It was something that Buffy Summers was known for – it was her _thing_. "Call me."

"I will!"

"Call me!" she added again, to the last lingering of her friends.

Buffy sighed absentmindedly and took off her deep-pink suede jacket. She rested it over her lap and revealed the white, daisy trimmed tank top underneath. The lollipop was back in her mouth. She casually sat on the bottommost set of steps out the front of Hemery's front entrance, waiting for boyfriend-ish-type guy-friend Tyler Jeffrey to finish his football training for the afternoon.

Out of nowhere, she was approached by a portly, discoloured-moustached man.

"Buffy Summers?"

"Yeah," she said distractedly. "Hi." She realised that she didn't know this man who could seriously have used a trip, or a hundred trillion, to the gym. OK, well, the older dude wasn't _that_ fat – but _where_ she was from, around _who_ she hung out with, the standards of physical perfection were pretty darn high. "What?"

"I need to speak with you."

Buffy frowned. "You're not from Bullocks, are you?" That old guy couldn't have tracked her all the way to her high school for one silly, little misdemeanour. And the store was probably insured anyway, right? It wasn't her fault that money was tight at home because of her stupid parents' stupid divorce – stupid, costly lawyers. "Because I – I meant to pay for that lipstick."

"There isn't much time. You must come with me. You're destiny awaits," old and portly spoke seriously, with little to no emotion. He acted annoyingly aroundingly-bush-beaty, too.

"I don't have a destiny." Buffy pursed her pink lips, sceptical. He had to have the wrong person. The only destiny she had, making the Hemery High cheerleading squad, she already fulfilled. "I'm destiny free, really." The strawberry-flavoured candy made its way back inside her mouth.

"Yes, you have. You have been chosen. You alone can stop them."

Buffy took the lollipop out of her mouth. This man with the funny moustache was beyond confusing. He really had to cut with the cryptic if he wanted her to understand what in the frilly heck he was talking about. Also, she thought whilst giggling internally, a strange middle-aged man talking to a lone teenage girl outside of a building filled with other young people was kinda skanky. "Who?"

"The vampires," he stated concisely, as if that single statement cleared everything up.

"Huh?"

* * *

 **Winter of 2002**

State-wide covering puffs of grey cloud, thick enough to block out that late afternoon's weak sunbeams, hung oppressively overhead. A steady drizzle of fittingly dreary rain fell upon a black cluster of umbrellas. They shielded a small crowd of people who surrounded an adult-sized coffin and were all dressed in depressingly dark funeral-wear.

Clark Kent morosely observed the friends and family of the recently departed Mr Fordman, opposite him. He saw the unreadable face of Lana Lang, who held hands with her boyfriend, and the late George Fordman's son, Whitney. The Smallville High football hero stood in between his distraught girlfriend and his heavily sobbing mother.

On the other side of Mrs Fordman was Joyce Summers. He remembered that Mrs Summers was originally Miss Fordman. She was the last surviving of Mr Fordman's three younger sisters – there was Joyce, the long passed Arlene Johnson, née Fordman, and longer deceased Lolly Fordman. His parents were friends with Mrs Summers. Jonathan Kent had known her during his days at Smallville High. She used to visit the Meteor Capital of the World every summer, until the one her niece Celia died.

Standing still and stoic and without a watery eye in sight was a dark-blonde-haired girl that Joyce Summers had a black-coated arm wrapped around. She was around his age. She looked vaguely familiar. Clark usually had an impeccable memory, yet he couldn't quite place her.

She evidently wasn't from Smallville. Her inappropriately short skirt, stylish sunglasses and high-heeled boots were strong proof of that. Also, he didn't know who she was. In Smallville, everybody knew everybody.

Clark swept over her alien (not in _his_ specific sense, of course) appearance with interest and fascination. Whilst he did, he could have sworn that his eyes tingled, that they felt a little warm for a split-second. The warm sensation flared so fast that he quickly dismissed it and presumed he imagined the whole thing.

If Lana's face was difficult to read, this girl's was indecipherable. She was clearly sad but her hard face remained impassive. She masterfully masked a world-weary shadow at would have gone unnoticed if Clark hadn't seen a similar one cross his own face every morning in the mirror. Hers, however, had a haunted quality that his thankfully lacked.

* * *

 **Spring of 2002**

Remy Zero played a slower, heartfelt hit at the Smallville High School Spring Formal. It was times like those that Lex Luthor's complicated friendship brought welcome and unexpected surprises.

Clark, in a crisp black suit, was slow dancing with his one of his best friends and his date for the dance, Chloe Sullivan.

"Clark Kent: Man of Mystery," Chloe stated very matter-of-factly, gazing up at him and grinning. "Just when I think I have you figured out, you surprise me."

"How's that?"

Chloe's head swivelled, contentedly taking in their colourful surroundings. "The song." She stared straight ahead, eye-level with Clark's chest. "The tux." She went back to admiring his handsome face. "Tonight."

"And I'm still here," he smiled, looking into her lovely green eyes.

Chloe beamed. "Yeah, you are."

Clark rested his dimpled chin on the top of Chloe's glitter-sprayed head and continued smiling. They blithely swayed, swaying on the spot. The multicoloured lights around them seemed to soften. He peered down at her, and he knew that she recognised the same thing he had. The splendidly cheesy, perfectly clichéd high school moment for them to lean in for a kiss at the school dance had come. They tiled their heads at the same time, slowly bowing towards each other.

"Stop! Stop the music, please."

They were interrupted when the painful ringing of someone tapping a microphone resonated throughout the packed gym. Remy Zero stopped playing.

"Excuse me for a-a second – yeah. Can I have everyone's attention, please?" a chaperoning teacher said hurriedly. "Um, thank you." He didn't sound like he had good news. "The National Weather Service has just issued a tornado warning. Apparently three funnels have been spotted heading toward Smallville."

The teacher standing on stage in front of his students had a light smattering of sweat coating his forehead. He talked very fast. Clark and Chloe exchanged worried glances. The whole gymnasium filled with incensed murmurs.

"Now, uh, please everyone, stay calm. The twisters are gonna set down south of here. But for your own safety, no one will be allowed to leave the gym …"

Clark felt a pit start to dig itself deeper at the base of his stomach. "The bus station's south of town." He realised something troubling. "Lana's there!"

"Clark, don't worry about it. I'm sure she's home by now," Chloe said reassuringly, patting his arm gently. "You know what? I'll go call her on my cell, and you wait here." She left him to find her purse and passed through the whispering throng of Smallville High students.

"Clark?" Chloe turned to look back at him, only to find he was missing. She retraced her steps, paying no attention to the hazardous mass of white balloons at her feet. "Clark?"

* * *

Buffy Summers slowly entered the Hemery High School gym. It was decorated with colourful banners, cheerful bunches of balloons and glittering, twisting streamers for the Senior Prom.

She was only a freshman, but had gotten back together with Jack Jordan after being dumped by an unappreciative jerk who shall not be named – whose name, however, only mentioned for the simple sake of basic information telling, was Tyler 'Butt-face' Jeffrey. Jack was a senior and had asked Buffy to be his date after their joyous (and one of many) reunion(s) a few months prior.

Buffy's tastefully made-up eyes darted around the room, searching for her Jack. He was probably unhappy that she couldn't meet him at home beforehand. Mrs Jordan was probably upset that she didn't have the opportunity to take pictures.

Buffy knew that Jack and his twelfth grade buddies had specially arranged for a stretch limousine to pick them up at the Jordan household before the prom. But, hello? It wasn't her fault that she had just touched back down in California only hours ago because of her Uncle George's funeral.

Buffy experienced a rare moment of gratitude for her Slayer powers. She wasn't blinded by the flashing lights that flooded the gymnasium.

Buffy caught sight of a dapper Jack Jordan dancing with a reasonably OK-looking girl that had a terrible perm (there should've been laws to prevent this kind of colossally atrocity-ish eyesore), which was drawn away from her tacky and heavily powdered face with a frothy pink scrunchie. That was weird – the girl's appearance, as well as the girl herself, who was with _her boyfriend_.

Buffy nonchalantly made her way over to Jack and the pink scrunchie girl who she was sort of sure was in the same year as him. "Jack! There you are."

"Buffy, hi," he stopped dancing and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought we were … gonna come here together."

Jack averted Buffy's confused face and gently grabbed her French-manicured hand. He steered Buffy to an empty, traffic-free corner of the gym, away from the perm-haired girl he danced with. "I'm here with Jenny."

"I don't get it." Buffy crossed her arms across her chest. She was glad that she got that big, old hairy mole on her left shoulder removed. She wore a low, strapless number that evening.

"Come on, Buffy," sighed Jack. "You know what's going on. It's not working out at all. We've got to move on."

"To Jenny? Nice choice, by the way," she congratulated sardonically.

"Well, my choices were limited. It was either find a last-minute date or sit on my ass and twiddle my thumbs waiting. I knew how that was gonna end: with me most likely getting stood up by you."

Buffy pouted. She spent hours that afternoon getting her hair dyed a fashionable dark-blonde and her make-up professionally done. She had wasted weeks looking for the right dress. She refused to settle until she finally found _the_ dress – a dusty pink gown that flawlessly fitted her like a specially tailored glove. "That is totally not fair."

"You know …" Jack paused. He didn't know how to word this. He still cared for her. She was the first girl – who wasn't him mom – that he ever cared about. "… I've heard the strangest rumours about you from the lowerclassmen."

"And you believe them?" derided Buffy in disbelief. She thought she knew Jack better than that.

"I don't know what to believe. Hal gets all shifty-eyed and guilty-faced whenever your name comes up. Other people look at me funny when I talk about you, too. And whatever other unexplainable insane you've got going on, I've had my own important, life-changing stuff happening, and my girlfriend hasn't been here for any of it."

"Gee, thanks." Buffy was given ample opportunity to pile on with the heavy sarcasm that evening.

"You and me … I think we've passed our prime, don't you?" he admitted resignedly. "I told you about all this. That's actually why I'm surprised you're here tonight."

Buffy shook her head at Jack was the ignorant party. "No you didn't."

"I couldn't get hold of you, so I, er, called. Didn't you get my message?" Jack's warm brown eyes took on an identical caginess that Buffy had gotten used to seeing on Hal ever since her _peculiar behaviour_ began. She was ousted by their group of friends a while ago. Stupid Slayer calling.

"You left me a message?"

"You weren't around."

"You broke up with my machine?" she cried, majorly peeved.

Other kids started to take notice and stare. Many whispered amongst themselves, and most blatantly ogled the infamous Hemery couple, eagerly expectant of a nasty outcome. Buffy's increased Slayer hearing picked up on the anticipatory comments from a few of Jack's fellow seniors. They were curious to see if their little lovers' spat would blow up like their last one in the cafeteria.

Jack had pulled Buffy aside in an attempt to avoid a scene. It didn't work out.

Jack unintelligibly (to normal human ears) mumbled under his breath, "Like always."

"Well, excuse me if I was out of town because I had to go to my dead uncle's funeral."

Hal looked regretful for a short moment, before his frustration returned. "Which you couldn't have found the time to tell me about?"

"Pooh-pooh, for you! That is, like, so totally, way not –" Buffy stopped.

They were interrupted by the loud smashes of breaking glass. The Hemery High gym filled with high-pitched screaming and riotous swearing. Vampires. That was what her life had come to. No friends or boyfriends, just unholy creatures of the night.

Buffy didn't even have a second to properly break up with Jack (again).

* * *

Gigantic twisters were headed for a red pickup truck, which was stuck in a grassy ditch on the side of the road. Nature's violent ferocity increased and uprooted an entire wooden barn.

On an otherwise empty field, the three turbulent funnels savagely rampaging Smallville had combined into one terrifying twister. The wild, toppling tornado was as dark and dirty as it was monstrous. Mounds of the farmland were sucked into its howling vacuum.

Clark, in his tux, matching bowtie and white corsage, suddenly appeared out of nowhere. His lungs empty and mouth gaping, he was tired from running. He had never run that fast before. He was shocked at the frightening sight of the vortex's destruction so far.

"Clark!" Lana Lang smacked the truck door's window with all the adrenalised might she could produce. She had shut herself in there for safety from the approaching twisters. Now, however, she was trapped inside and about to be sucked into the tornado's fierce winds.

"Lana!" he yelled helplessly.

Lana screamed. "CLARK!" The pickup truck was lifted off the ground and sucked into the air.

"NO!"

* * *

 **Summer of 2002**

Buffy had to get a new diary. A diary with a lock on it. She also had to learn to write in complex codes, or maybe a really old, obscure language. Or both. She seriously needed a brand new diary with a heavy duty, solid steel, incredibly impregnable lock and get with the brain-learning about some crazy complicated cryptography techniques. There was absolutely no way in hell that she would go through this again.

The Vampire Slayer was arrested for slaying vampires.

Buffy couldn't help but think that the fates were laughing their stupid little asses off with the irony of her predicament. It wasn't enough to dump a damning destiny on her poor, unfortunate lap. Oh, no. The universe had culminated her majorly sucky life for the past year into one huge joke for the all-seeing, all-knowing, all-controlling jerks upstairs.

Buffy had saved Hemery High. She was then charged by the cops for committing arson, which … she was actually, kinda guilty of. But it was _life-saving_ arson. Arson which saved lives and prevented bloody, bitey badness!

Buffy hadn't simply woken up one morning and decided that it was a nice day to make s'mores. She wasn't a round the bend pyromaniac with an uncontrollable itch to scratch. There were no compulsive tendencies craving blazing infernos to temper.

Her Watcher was killed, the school dance was attacked by a hungry gang of vamps looking for some munchies and a murdery good time, and she had no other options.

Buffy was put into a position where she had to make a tough decision because of her cursed calling.

She chose the option that saved people but burned down her school gym to a crispy, smoky cinder. Everything fell further downhill from there. Far more than she had previously thought was possible.

Buffy had been remanded to Boca Hall. A truly _lovely_ place. Charming. Cosy. _Really_. The place was one of Coast City's finest where she could be checked up on at all hours by Coast City's finest.

Buffy was arrested in front of her classmates and sentenced to a juvenile detention centre for two whole months. As she would have told anyone who asked politely enough, it was "lovely" …

Until her trial for the _alleged_ arson charges, Buffy was entrusted into the custody of the Boca Hall Juvenile Detention Centre for delinquent girls. Her parents didn't bother to put up bail or much of a fight against the authorities. They believed that she was guilty because of her newfound attitude and bout of disobedient behaviour.

Hank and Joyce were too busy arguing amongst themselves about their crumbling marriage and which of them should get the blame for their daughter's criminal exploits to actually help her.

For two months, Buffy was trapped in a metal-barred building for felonious females. Enough time for her dark-blonde hair to return to its natural sunny, yellow state. She could have easily escaped, Slayerness and all, but that definitely wouldn't have helped her (soon to be, juvenile criminal) record.

Buffy was essentially jailed for doing her God-given – as close to _literally_ as one could get – job. She never liked being the Slayer, but it wasn't until _after_ her release from Boca Hall that she hated it.

She lost all of her friends, her boyfriend, her backup boyfriends, her reasonably non-totally failing grades, her reputation, her freedom …

The list of things she no longer had was endless!

The blows to her happiness and welfare were difficult enough to deal with. And then came Primrose.

Buffy was out of Boca Hall, sans the demeaning (and totally breakable) embarrassment of handcuffs and away from juvenile court for less than an hour. She sat in the backseat of her parents' car, ignorant of the mounting tension and uncomfortable silence. She was lost in thought over her odd variety of experiences at Boca.

She had no desire to be in such a soul-sucking place again, but not everything was horribly with the negative. Coast City's Slayer had picked up a few nifty, not-entirely-legal tricks that could come in handy someday. Would, actually, considering her inescapable profession.

Joyce cut through the harsh hush innocently enough for Buffy to remain unaware of her parents' underhanded intentions for her "own good." Either that or she just wasn't paying enough attention. A stupid mistake. Self-involvement, no matter how perfectly justified, was always a double-edged sword.

Buffy had no clue that her mom read her diary while she was remanded in Boca Hall.

"Sweetie, I heard about those horrible, erm, _things_."

Buffy uttered a barely audible, "Uh huh."

Hank and Joyce traded concerned exchanges, she more worried than he was.

"Yes. The vampires." Joyce sternly stared at her husband, her soon-to-be-divorced husband. They had chosen not to tell Buffy that piece of information quite yet. They would when she got better. "Right, Hank?"

Hank gulped. He was used to the irrational anger aimed at him over the past year but had rarely seen such a frightening face grace Joyce's fair face. "Er, oh! Yes. Those vampires. Those evil, blood sucking fiends."

If Buffy had paid attention to her father awkward conversational aberration, she would have discovered the precise source of her atrocious acting skills. She would have realised why she sucked at being Secret Identity Girl when caught red-handed with demon gore. Or, like the last time, a firebombed building.

"They're the reason why you burnt down the school gym. Aren't they, honey?" Joyce said soothingly.

Buffy heard the tail end of her mom's words. She found it difficult to believe what had passed through her ears. "Va-v-v-vamp-vampires?"

"Yes, sweetheart."

"You believe me?" Buffy asked hopefully.

That hope that was quashed ten minutes later.

In ten minutes, the Summers family was parked outside of a deceptively bright and inviting building. Its exterior looked like that of a smallish shopping mall. There were no telling signs of whom or what was inside. There was no reason to be suspicious.

Two minutes later, Buffy tried to convince her mom and dad that she wasn't crazy. That she didn't belong in a place like this.

She was told that she was sick and needed professional help to get better. Her parents said that they wanted her to be their "healthy little girl again." They pleaded for her to go along with their wishes.

Her parents weren't fighting for once, and she almost let herself indulge in the relief and joy of that for a moment.

Seven minutes after that, Buffy put up a struggle against white-coated orderlies. That's right. There were "nice men and women" in _white freaking coats_!

The orderlies eventually got the upper hand because of their vast numbers and unexpected upper body strength. There was an army of trigger happy doctors and nurses wearing white with a fleet of syringes at the ready.

It didn't take long for the white-coated oppression parade to douse Buffy's system with more than enough mental and muscle relaxants to drop a herd of elephants. The doctors rationalised the abnormal amount of drugs required to sedate her on adrenaline.

Nobody used the 'c' word but it was clear what everyone, from her parents to the certified specialists to the cooking staff, thought of her mental state. They believed that Buffy Summers was crazy. Her parents had her committed at the Primrose Clinic, the premier psychiatric hospital in Coast City.

Buffy experienced inconsistent rushes of emotions and memories. That was probably because she was doped higher than the decade of flower power with a nice cocktail of medication not actually required for her mental health.

On the little, littlest level, Buffy enjoyed her time in the cuckoo's nest. She didn't have to slay the forces of evil night after night. She wasn't Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She was Buffy the Alleged Arsonist in the eyes of the law. She was simply the New Patient at Primrose. Her new titles were hardly better than the first, but they weren't accompanied by the weight of the world.


	2. Clark Swann

**Clark Swann**

 _In what world would Superman not have a secret identity? The Marvelverse, of course!_

Note: _Smallville_ x MCU. I was palette cleansing from some _Gossip Girl_ fic when I wrote this YEARS ago, and it SHOWS.

Warning: Majorly INCOMPLETE.

Pairings: Jane/Thor, Clark/Sif.

* * *

A van was speeding, travelling through the dark New Mexico desert and dusting up sand. Two astrophysicists were being driven by their _poli-sci_ intern, Darcy Lewis to conduct research. Jane Foster hung out of an open window to record an aurora-borealis-type phenomenon on her video camera. Jane had ordered Darcy to speed towards the lightning storm ahead.

Jane chucked at their right place, right time good fortune as a forceful tunnel of twisting air shot towards the ground. There was whipping and whistling and crashing and thundering. A tornado that appeared from nowhere had slammed out of the otherworldly light which penetrated a portion of the twinkle-speckled ink above.

Darcy wasn't keen to continue their battle against the swirling maelstrom of dust that threatened to throw them in the direction of the nearest ambulance. "I am not dying for six college credits!"

"What if I take Clark up on his offer?" Jane reasoned as she awkwardly fought to take charge of the steering wheel from the passenger's side.

"You're going to start paying me with actual currency-like money?" she laughed sarcastically. "Like I don't know that's an empty promise."

Their four-wheel drive had hit a humanoid figure. The breaks were slammed and the vehicle had spun from the abrupt cease of motion. They had smacked somebody to the ground, unconscious. Whoever it was had cracked a spider's web of fissures on the car window with an impressive thud.

* * *

Clark sat in his top level office at Swann Technology and Research Labs. He had headed the secondary central branch in New York City since his return.

S.T.A.R. Labs was the world's foremost research facility. It carried a chain of advanced laboratories devoted to scientific study that were unconnected to government agendas and business interests. It was a company that had been founded by Clark's late father. The brilliant, kind and courageous Dr Virgil Swann.

Some people still gave Clark funny looks every day he showed up at the glass, steel and cement fortress in Morningside Heights. They had questioned his ability to work there, let alone run the place.

Clark Swann was an alumnus of Ivy University, which was a mightily impressive feat. He had graduated summa cum laude. But he wasn't a PhD. He hadn't so much as applied for any form of grad school (not that he had actually required formal education beyond his dad's specialised Swann-style homeschooling …). Clark was a _Mister_ , not a _Doctor_. He had spent the two years after Dr Swann's sudden death totally off the grid, unseen or heard from the entire time.

Many of Clark's colleagues were unsure with what to make of his presence.

However, there were those who had been perfectly aware that Clark was more than capable of performing his day job. Despite his comparatively primitive academic credentials. They were the ones who had the pleasure of personally working alongside of him. He'd joined in on discussion and debate since he could talk. He'd tinkered and tested since he could walk.

Garrison Slate, a fellow scientist and lifelong friend of his father's, had considered himself fortunate enough to count himself among them – the most memorable occasion being when the young Mr Swann had needed to provide Belle Reve Sanatorium with the means to contain his (cough, legally legitimate shotgun wife, cough) college girlfriend for extensive psychotherapy. Dr Slate had succeeded Dr Swann as the president of S.T.A.R. Labs a couple of decades ago. He had known Clark since he was a boy – and a kind-hearted, endlessly optimistic, precociously bright boy, he was.

Now that Clark Swann was a man, the world would be better served to watch out. He was going to do extraordinary things. Garrison was sure of it.

* * *

They were at their outpost in the small town of Puente Antiguo. Surrounded by an organised clutter of electronic equipment, Jane, Darcy and Erik Selvig discussed the magnetic storm they had encountered. Most of it was modified or made from scratch by Jane, herself. A lot of it had been built with the aid of a friend – her best friend.

"A what?" Darcy asked.

Erik mumbled, "I thought you were a science major."

"Political science," she unashamedly corrected.

"She was the only applicant," said Jane.

"And _she_ has connections to a U.S. Senator."

Erik had realised who she was referring to. "Mr Swann," he confirmed, nodding.

* * *

Clark was on the phone with his mother. He hadn't gotten to see her much since his return to civilisation. She seamlessly made the transition to the United States Senate after her second term as the New York State Senator had wrapped. She had relocated to Washington, D.C. as a result.

Martha Swann had made the leap from university professor to state politician when her youngest had graduated from the Veritas School in the city and left for college. Her husband had started to spend more and more time in isolation, shutting himself in the back room of his planetarium. Their daughter was occupied with various endeavours overseas – degree collecting, art amassing and amateur equestrianism.

Patricia wasn't recognised for merely being the eldest child of the brilliant Virgil Swann and New York City's prominent Clark family, alone. She was known for her show jumping skills as well as her humanitarian work. Internationally competing on the equestrian circuit had come to an end, for the most part. Her philanthropic deeds had turned into a full-time job subsequent to earning her umpteenth postgraduate degree in social sciences (so there was, at least, one Dr Swann still alive and kicking). Martha handed over her Carter Foundation chairwomanship – which her husband had passed onto her after he became quadriplegic – to the next generation upon leaving the U.S. Senate election unanimously victorious.

In the spring of 2009, Virgil had passed away. Clark had graduated at the top of his class in Ivy Town shortly before the tragedy and left not long afterwards. It was during this period of despair that Martha had decided to make herself busy. Busier than she already was. She was deeply affected by the loss of her quirky, kind and compassionate husband. She didn't want her day to day actions to become decimated by grief.

Senator Swann had held her current position in American government – doing what she was able to keep her family safe and make the nation a better place – for nearly two years. She sometimes wondered whether her sharp talents and diplomatic nature would be better utilised on a more global scale. Perhaps, in the United Nations.

It was high tide for Martha to bid a loving adieu to her son. She had a closed meeting with the U.S. Secretary of Defence this afternoon. The whole clandestine ordeal was being treated very hush-hush, very secretive. She had wasted hours the past fortnight, pondering what Alexander Pierce wanted from her. Favours were essentially currency in the District of Columbia. They hadn't had enough interaction for anything to be owed by either party. She was incredibly intrigued in regard to his intentions.

* * *

Erik, Darcy and Jane had climbed into the four-wheeler. They backpedalled to the hospital post-haste to question the well-built man they'd left with those poor scrambling orderlies hours earlier. All they had found was a tangle of empty restraints and an unoccupied bed.

Jane verbally berated herself for losing their most important piece of evidence. She was determined to find the guy they suspected had arrived in through what could very well have been a wormhole. Erik was hesitant because of what the brutish, blonde giant had proved capable of in there. Jane refused to give up. Planning to look all over Albuquerque if she had to, she turned on the ignition and reversed. The van had accidentally hit an unsuspecting Thor. Again.

"I'm so sorry," cried Jane, jumping out and onto the ground. "I swear, I'm not doing this on purpose."

"Don't worry. You're not the first guy she's hit," flippantly drawled her intern.

"What are you talking about, Darcy? Yes he is."

"One time, when Clark was visiting Culver, I asked him how you guys first met." Darcy wore a cheeky grin.

Jane exasperatedly shook her head. "And Clark Swann never lies … I don't know what the big deal is. It was a bicycle! Very different to an automobile."

* * *

 _It was windy fall day in New York City, 1999. Clark was on his way home from soccer practice. His 'sapphire' pinkie ring had been taken off the chain he wore around his neck at training. It was back where it belonged – when he was in public – on his finger. He had missed the last bus for a while and would just walk home through the park. Blue Kryptonite ring or not, it took an awful lot to wear him out._

 _Clark had been lost in thought when he was clipped by a bicycle. He fell to the ground and grazed his chin. Great. He couldn't remove the stone until the mark had completely healed. An estimated week with a Veritas course load completed at human speed. Wonderful. He couldn't risk an abnormally speedy recovery. There was already his suspiciously non-existent list of illness and injury._

 _Annoyances aside, Clark was more concerned for the person who rode into him. He hoped they weren't hurt. Soft brown eyes, hidden under a stray curtain of silky brown hair, had peered up at him in mortification. As he stood and brushed himself off, the girl hadn't gotten up._

 _After helping her off the pavement, he would learn that this pretty girl's name was Jane Foster. This was the day that Clark Swann had met his best friend._

* * *

It was early evening. Clark had finished up at work but didn't return home – his family's Fifth Avenue townhouse, still conventionally called _Clark Manor_ by the doggedly traditional Upper East Side natives. He stayed on the half of Manhattan closest to the Hudson. He went from the Academic Acropolis, down to the northwest corner of De Witt Clinton Park. He was headed to the serenely quiet, sequestered space his father had routinely frequented before an untimely death.

The New York Planetarium had become somewhat of a crutch for Clark Swann. After his dad died, he had run to the Arctic to further explore his origins. His father had told him about the five-sided crystal hidden inside of a secret vault at the observatory in his final days. He had been able to switch off his emotions throughout the Kryptonian training. It was almost terrifying, how easy it was for him to let nothing but detached rationalism take control. He hadn't grieved for the loss of the man that was greater than life, even when reduced to the confines of human frailty in a wheelchair. Not until returning home.

The planetarium had allowed him feel closer to his father – his adoptive father – but his real father, nonetheless. Virgil Swann resolutely took in the child that came to Earth amid the hail of fire that had caused his quadriplegia. He and his wife had raised him, taught him, loved him.

His dad was gone forever and Clark had finally permitted himself to feel that.

It had been months of delayed mourning. Clark wasn't sure if he would ever get over it. He should have ripped that bandaid straight away. Efficiently fast. Quickly and cleanly. He had waited too long. The ache that he let catch up with him had exploded in relentless waves. Waves which were taking their sweet time, quelling on their own.

Clark had slowly entered the back room that his father used to occupy. Cautiously, until he had utilised his superhuman hearing. He dropped his guard. He had recognised the uninvited intruder's heartbeat. It was steady. Tirelessly disciplined.

"Superhearing, Ollie," Clark suspired.

A jovial voice rang out from the figure in the verdant costume, waiting for him in the shadows. "So, I take it we're skipping over the whole, 'Hello, good to see you again!' part of the conversation."

"You're the one lurking in the shadows, Queen." He cracked a smile. "But I suppose it is – good to see you again, I mean. It's been a while."

Oliver walked into the light that Clark had turned on. He lowered his green leather hood and grinned.

"Yeah, well, it's getting a little crowded for heroics in California. The government should just get it over with and rename the Golden State 'Anthonia' or 'Starkansas', already."

"Are you in my hometown to pickpocket any more billionaires?"

"Don't worry, Swann," Oliver placated. "Just the shady ones."

Clark shook his head. "You really think it's right to steal, as long as it goes to a good cause?"

"If the ends justify the means? Absolutely, yes," he firmly stated.

"I'll never feel that way," said Clark with just as much self-assurance. "Oliver, I admire the way you seek justice for corporate villainy, but there's a whole world of people out there. They need us. With your potential, you shouldn't limit yourself to the Robin Hood act, alone."

"This – again?" Oliver had nimbly planted himself atop a neat stack of painfully thick, frighteningly large texts. "Seriously?" He sounded as if his old friend's old spiel was a total joke. "Come on, Clark. You have abilities I couldn't even dream of. I can't exactly zip halfway around the world at a moment's notice."

"Doesn't mean the Green Arrow is unable to make any more of a difference," Clark countered, sincerity and conviction reverberating loudly.

Oliver was standing again. He strode over to Clark and patted him on the arm of his black, bespoke jacket. "I think you're taking the whole neighbourhood watch thing a bit too seriously, Boy Scout."

* * *

Jane provided Thor with clothing that wasn't the drab mint garb he had escaped from the hospital in. He'd changed but he hadn't put the shirt on yet. He was not remotely uncomfortable with walking around a scientific outpost in the middle of the desert half-naked. Jane had actively avoided the show. Darcy hid no shame about how much she had enjoyed it.

"You know, for a crazy homeless person, he's pretty cut," she said, her bespectacled eyes keenly following his muscular frame. "As impressive as your big, blue boy scout."

"Clark isn't _my_ boy scout," lightly reprimanded Jane.

"Didn't you guys date?"

"Yeah. In _high school_."

* * *

 _Approximately two years of friendship later, Jane Foster and Clark Swann had experienced their first relationship. With each other._

 _It was everything that a high school romance should've been. Not an epic, heartbreaking saga. There were no awkward, done to death love triangles including unrequited pining and at least one point which was frustratingly oblivious the entire time. There was a small fight or several down the road, sure. They had teenage hormones kicking their emotions into overdriven extremes. And it had taken Clark a while to be completely truthful, to … open up about himself._

 _Looking back, there was nothing to regret. It was sweet and it was simple. It was unfussy and it was fun. What they had were impeccable high school careers capped off with a prime example of puppy love. Sadly, what these high school sweethearts had wasn't meant to last. On the upside, they had come away from it with a lasting friendship._

* * *

"Sorry I tased you," Darcy called across the room.

A still shirtless Thor had wandered out of the bathroom. He picked up a scientific gadget with loose wires. Jane had rushed over to stop him.

"Excuse me." Unprepared, she ran with her notebook half open. Its front cover was now haphazardly folded and had creased. "Excuse me!" She snatched the device that he had handled with curiosity. She was standing directly in front of Thor. An objectively broad-chested, well-defined Thor. Yes. Objective, indeed.

"Ah." Jane looked down and felt like a silly schoolgirl again, averting another set of sparkly baby blues belonging to a pleasing face at the pinnacle of a god-like body. She wanted to bury her nose in her notes and have it stay there. "Um." But she couldn't act like a child. She had to remain professional.

Thor inspected the t-shirt he was about to put on. He had noticed something out of place. He had pointed the oddity out to Jane. "What is this?"

Her eyes bugged out. "Oh." She tore the nametag off the black shirt. "My ex. Good with patients and bad with relationships." She avoided eye contact and almost let out an uncomfortable chuckle whilst saying this.

"This does not say the Son of Swann of which you spoke."

Jane's face had momentarily scrunched with confusion. "Son of Sw― what? Oh, you mean Clark. No. Not him. We're just friends. Actually, Clark was the person who introduced us."

* * *

 _The bookish dormice they'd been at the Veritas School, Clark and Jane had agreed that they wanted to have the full college experience. That meant there was a particular ritual they had to partake in. Spring break. Preferably, in Florida._

 _Jane had convinced her rather aloof, hyper-conservative roommate to join them. It had taken a lot of time and patience for her to open up. She had thought of her as unkindly stuck up for a while. Jane wasn't the happiest college dorm camper for the first month at Culver. She hadn't needed another Shay in her life. It turned out that Alicia Baker was simply very sheltered and very private – precisely akin to her best friend when she had first met him in middle school. She was a reticent, cautious person. She was actually very nice._

 _Clark had brought two new buddies he made at Ivy University. He never had many friends. He had been homeschooled by his father until seventh grade and was rather shy. He was the smart and athletic kid who had won a well-balanced, all-rounder collection of awards but didn't really talk to anyone. Not often. Not until Jane._

 _It took an ice breaker such as a bicycle-induced scrape for him to become close to somebody that he hadn't already known his entire life. Clark had slowly and steadily built on his self-assurance during high school. He had really come into his own without his relatives, his family friends and his best-friend/turned-girlfriend/turned-ex-but-still-best-friend as a safety net he'd always been able to keep a weather eye on._

 _Clark had road tripped to Miami with his roommate and a guy he befriended playing varsity sports at Ivy. There was the science major that had seemed unable to tell time. He was light-hearted and humble to the point of self-depreciation and ridiculously nice. He was the dorm roomie. And then there was the pre-med female fantasy who, in essence, had it all. Charisma and confidence. Brains and brawn. Textbook good looks. His name was Donald Blake. He had the whole package and what girl wouldn't fall for that?_

* * *

"This mortal form has grown weak. I need sustenance."

Darcy was on her laptop. She was browsing gossip sites when Thor had felt the necessity to proclaim his hunger to the entire room. "…and here was me thinking he'd be a monk forever."She had paid no attention to the random outburst. "Aside from the whole, you know, quickie Vegas marriage thing when you guys were my age," went her unapologetic word vomit. "Hah! Oh my god! If you think about it, Clark's kinda technically a widower."

Darcy had stumbled upon an interesting article. She motioned for Jane to join her when she'd finished laughing. "Hey, Jane! Come, look at this."

Jane walked over to Darcy. She had bent over her shoulder to scan the screen. " _Billionaire Boys Out On Town_."She glanced at picture uninterestedly before recognising Clark. "Oh. Well, that's new." She saw paparazzi snapped pictures of Clark. He was obviously drunk. "And _that's_ odd," she said to herself quietly.

Needing to know the meaning of this, Jane continued her perusal of the pointless page. She had found for herself a logical explanation. There was a caption posted that had mentioned the return of Clark Swann's signature 'sapphire' pinkie ring. "Or, maybe, not so much."The masses truly cared about every stupid little thing concerning people of prominence and their offspring. But thank the universe they did, this time, right? Clark Swann: intoxicated? She was ready to flip out.

For some annoying and unquantifiable reason, Jane had trouble tearing herself away from tattler trash once she set her eyes on it. Feminists probably wouldn't have appreciated the cursing in her head at the moment, but damn those natural female instincts for this kind of crap. She had skimmed the rest of the article. "I love how _factual_ tabloids always are."

"Yeah. No way would C.K. ever be bold enough to go for a supermodel." Darcy could always be counted on to add her own two cents. "Says he went home named Jac Jet."

"He's never exactly been one for jumping the velvet ropes at nightclubs." Jane had taken charge of the laptop. She scrolled through the remainder of the intrusive images that depicted an allegedly hammered S.T.A.R. Labs heir apparent. She saw an old family friend of the Swanns in many of the same shots. She had pointed at the chiselled-featured, spiky-haired blonde. "But at least now we know why he did."

* * *

 _Hours ago, Oliver was dragging a reluctant Clark away from the observatory eyesore he had planned to spend his night in. The Rainforest Preservation Foundation had hired out a club a few streets south of their position to host an event. They were both invited but Clark had not planned to attend. He hadn't been out and about since he'd come back to the States. Aside from his daily trek to S.T.A.R. Labs, people rarely saw him. He had returned to his old life with a more work, less play mentality. Not that he frequented the playing scene in the first place. He was a fan of his solitude. Oliver, on the other hand of an entirely different deck, was enough of a player for everyone._

 _Oliver Queen was a charming man. He was a convincing guy. He had successfully coerced Clark into zipping home for his blue K ring. It was their philanthropic duty to go and enjoy themselves and bring home beautiful women. The planet needed them. South America's delicate ecosystem needed them. More importantly, Clark was needy too. He needed to lighten up. He needed to relax for once. He needed to remove the glowing green space rock that was always wedged up his overdeveloped sense of responsibility._

 _Clark had vanished after his father's funeral. It was near a year until Oliver saw him again. Even then, he hadn't seen much of him since East Asia. He had discovered that Virgil and Martha Swann's boy was an intergalactic super-being that day. They had crossed paths – coincidentally, both – lending a hand to someone who'd gotten into a tough spot sinking an illegal whaler._

 _Apparently, Clark had already met the almost-but-not-quite as attractive beach head they saved from getting his scaly butt filleted. There were mentions of spring break and an elevator and the reason why Virgil's son had polluted the scandal sheets the summer before his sophomore year at college in their greeting conversation._

 _Oliver was overseas for Queen Industries that week in '09. He had happened upon the dangerous situation off the coast of Japan by the great white sea canary of chances. The itinerary for tonight in_ The City That Never Sleeps _, however, was more of the premeditated variety._

 _"Marquee, Oliver?" Clark disbelievingly scoffed. "I thought this was for charity."_

 _He shrugged. "The Rainforest Preservation Foundation is probably just aiming for the expendable money clips of a younger crowd. Put enough booze in them, and–"_

 _"–I get it." He sounded defeated. "I concede. It's an intelligent idea."_

 _The renowned Star City playboy and the reserved son of Virgil Swann were blocked from the hopping hotspot by a frenzied barrage of flashing lights and shouted commentary. Clark had squirmed uncomfortably and grimaced. A scantily clad, over-polished parade of prancing movers and shakers that actually liked being in the public eye had airily passed them after suitably preening and posing for the cameras._

 _"So, it turns out global warming's just another excuse to take your clothes off," Clark remarked._

 _"I know what it looks like, man, but they do raise a ton of cash for a good cause."_

 _The slime balls of photojournalism wouldn't let them pass._

 _"Come on, smile, Clark. Give them a good shot. That way…" Oliver swirled and swigged an imaginary beverage in an invisible stemmed glass, "…we can start the better part of this evening." He winked at a stunning woman with an exotic tan and a cascading waterfall of sausage curls._

 _The reigning Miss July had returned Oliver's wink. She strutted towards them on six inches of sharp-looking suffering. "Ollie!" She widely smiled and effusively hugged her favourite ongoing casual Friday. She spied another handsome man over his solid shoulder. "Who's your friend?"_

 _"This is Clark." Oliver had made the introductory hand gestures, amusedly looking back and forth between them. "Clark, this is the lovely Miss Adrianna Kottmeier."_

 _Adrianna had waved over an acquaintance of her own. "Well, this is my friend – Jac Jet."_

 _Both girls were mouth-wateringly attractive. They had shown up tonight wearing very little. Pink had noticeably tinged Clark's transparent face since Adrianna decided to stick around on the velvet-roped sidewalk. He probably would have been reduced to fire truck red when Jacsashayed onto the scene, had he picked up Oliver's personal reading habits. She was last June's mind-bendingly flexible_ Maxim _cover._

* * *

Kryptonian physiology was a Rao-send. Clark was bright eyed and bushytailed for work in a few hours with the removal of a radiated Sunstone ring. It was only a recent development that he had felt comfortable enough with his differences and his origins to be wholly and solely himself in public. In a manner of speaking. He was no longer compelled to fit in to a desperate degree.

From the moment that his father had taught him about the crystal meteorite components, – that had travelled galaxies alongside of his spaceship to angrily rain down on a modest farming community in Kansas – he had happily found a way to be normal. Well, _more_ normal. Unaffected by the rays of a yellow sun, Virgil Swann had theorised and, then, proven that his son's unique physiology prevailed as vastly different from the anatomy of a human being. It was denser and contained a number of alien organs. It was superior, for sure. It just wasn't _super_.

Clark liked the normalcy that blue Kryptonite (as his dad had appropriately named it) afforded him. When he began attending a real school, it allowed him to play the sports that his parents had permitted Patty's boyfriend to teach an ecstatic eleven-year-old on weekends. That was around the time the blue K had entered his everyday sphere.

His dad was definitely smart. Astute beyond intellectual acumen. Virgil had hesitated from introducing the rainbow of meteor remnants for a very good reason. He had known that his son craved a mundane, commonplace existence. Clark had to have an exemplary handle on his otherworldly abilities before giving him the means to temporarily eliminate them. He had to understand and accept himself for who he was, first. He had to be humbly but gladly grateful for his superpowers. He did and he was, somewhat.

Clark had reached a place where he embraced his Kryptonian roots almost as much as the humanity he'd been raised in. The feelings about his heritage on both sides of the coin; both nature and nurture were close to achieving symbiotic equality. Largely helped by the artificial intelligence and the alien technology contained within the Kryptonian Crystal of Knowledge that came from his spaceship. They were just not quite a hundred percent racing to the finish line at a synchronised pace.

* * *

A motley, mismatched bunch was seated at the same table in Isabel's Diner. Jane was spewing question after question, with Darcy cruising not far behind her. Thor repeatedly shoved overspilling mouthfuls into his system ravenously. Erik had watched whilst expressing a mix of unhidden disbelief, curiosity and concern.

"How'd you get inside that cloud?"

"Also, how could you eat an entire box of Pop Tarts and still be this hungry?" Darcy nonchalantly added. "His pit is nearly as bottomless as Clark's."

Thor had eventually lessened his pace enough to respond to the polite but probing inquisition. "This 'Clark', you speak of him often. Why?"

"He's always around… he's Jane's best friend… and he's stupid hot!"

Jane was tempted to face-palm. Literally face-palm. "'Stupid hot'? Really, Darcy?"

"Well, it's true. You must've gone crazy when you broke up with him."

"It was mutual. And, hey, _I'm_ not the psycho ex who went crazy on Clark Swann."

* * *

 _It had started in a malfunctioning elevator during the spring break of 2005. It had ended in a specialised chamber at a mental institution months later._

 _Clark was quite smitten when he had met Alicia. He fell head over heels for her when he'd found out that they had so much in common. Their short, intense relationship had made him prone to wearing stupidly massive grins. In the beginning._

 _Alicia was the first metahuman that Clark had ever met. She could disappear and reappear in a haze of distorted air – like the psychedelic heatwaves that wafted off metallic surfaces throughout especially sweltering summers –with a thought. She had really liked him too. He was… incredibly… Clark-like._

 _They were both different. She had spent her life protecting herself by emanating uptight inapproachability. He was used to hiding behind his naturally inhibited demeanour. They had bonded because of their consequentially unprecedented experiences. She, disturbingly, had wanted to bond with him a tad too much._

 _Alicia hadn't possessed the understanding family or have any of the friends that Clark did, growing up. She had a boyfriend once, but that hadn't gone well. She sought eighteen years of withheld, neglected affection from one person: Clark Swann._

 _In a nutshell, she went nuts. She had wanted him all to herself. She tried to kill Jane, who had embarked on her own post-high school romance with Donald. She was obsessed with him. She had drugged and married him in Las Vegas. Meanwhile, he disappointed his parents and given the press a field day because he'd idiotically decided to trust her too soon._

 _Alicia was kept in a medically induced coma while S.T.A.R. Labs developed the means to contain her. Clark may have helped to speed up their progress. She had killed herself in the struggle to escape. He had rarely ventured beyond a third date in six years. There were two exceptions that stood out. There was one on a sojourn in the Cyclades. The other was upon his Manhattan homecoming. Neither had ended with happily ever afters, either._

* * *

Oliver wasn't as lucky as Clark in the morning. He was sleeping off an excess of vintage Moët in a guest room at a historic Fifth Avenue mansion with Adrianna at his side and Jac, also lost to the lull of dreamland, across the narrow hall. The Swann townhouse was a meticulously maintained Manhattan pre-war that had made up for its mere twenty-seven foot width by being eight-stories high. The visitors had taken to bedrooms on the second floor after stumbling through the proud pairs of foyer doors. There was no elevator and walking far had equalled exceptionally bad at that hour.

The brass Brauer timepiece on the antique nightstand showed that it had passed midday. None of the three slumbering occupants had so much as remotely stirred.

Oliver's skull was invaded by an army of maniacal elves that were equipped with hammers, clackers, whistles and bells. Up was down. Left was right. It had become possible for him to be looking at a headachingly fast and colourful vortex with his eyes closed. At least he held his liquor well enough to never have needed to shack up with a toilet bowl.

The evil little elves had marched his cerebrum carrying a stereo, too. A stereo that was jammed, stuck replaying _Tub Thumping_ for ten minutes. It had taken ten minutes for Oliver to stretch beyond the warmth of the Pratesi comforter and blindly search for his Q-Phone. Adrianna had buried herself deeper into the Hästens horse hair because of the unwelcome disturbance.

"I hate you," Oliver groaned into the mouthpiece. His scrunched lids were screwed shut over his pounding sockets. Could eyeballs even vibrate, he would've asked himself if not for the repentant pain. He was unable to remember whether the curtains were closed before passing out.

"I wasn't the one who wanted to after-party in every borough."

Swann's voice was irritatingly cheerful, in Oliver's rather pissed opinion. He had felt the need to elaborate, "I still hate you."

"You're _still_ in bed?" Clark had heard the faint yet gravelly brokenness in his notes.

"I reckoned Briar Rose got something right," he childishly whined. "Sue me."

* * *

Thor had finished every drop of coffee in his cup with a large gulp. "This drink. I like it."

"I know. It's great, right?" Darcy enthusiastically agreed. It was difficult to tell if she was good-humouredly talking down to him or being serious. "You know, at the pace you consume things, you and Clark could be one and the same."

"Another!" Thor had smashed his mug on the floor.

There was involuntary wincing and clenching and jumping in seats. The diner's elderly owner and the other patrons had turned to stare.

"Sorry, Izzy…"

Darcy had pursed her lips. "With the exclusion of his freakishly impeccable table manners."

"Yeah, well, not everyone grew up in New York high society," Jane had to remark after excusing Thor's strange and unseemly disturbance.

* * *

 _A stunning fifteen-year-old with dark skin and darker hair had menacingly crossed her arms and blocked the portrait-lined corridor. "Well, look who it is, girls. Plain Brain Jane."_

 _"What do you want, Shay?" Jane asked in a tiff. She would have seemed as if she had grown a backbone, except she stared at the chequered stone beneath her inappropriately non-designer Mary Janes from Target._

 _"That's Miss Veritas to you, Foster."_

 _Shay and her merry band of mean girls were the bane of Jane's existence since she had received a one-in-a-whole-lot-of-million scholarship to New York City's internationally esteemed Veritas School. She had to have known it was too good to be true. She had to know that there would have been some price to pay for the best education in the world._

 _Three-quarters of Veritas students took cross-town busses through Central Park each morning. It wasn't just UES society spawn that graced the marble-floored, walnut-panelled hallowed halls of this particular preparatory school. It was extremely exclusive in a scholastic sense. The kids practically needed to have chosen what they planned to write their dissertations on before finishing their freshman year._

 _Many had hailed from neck-paining super-talls and expensive Midtown co-ops. Several stayed in the consulates that tended to be spread in concentration over the right side of the crowded island. A percentage hadn't needed to catch anything more than a quick cab ride or a brisk walk, residents of the Upper West. And then there was that twenty-five percent which – were from out of town but not minded by some sort of nanny/valet/butler/handler escort combination, and – boarded on campus._

 _The Veritas School had prided itself on having the most rigorous academic regimen in the western world. It wasn't exclusive to old money, newly minted billionaires, children of Nobel laureates and relations of high-ranking diplomats. It had sought out the best of the brightest. Jane Foster was over the moon to have counted herself amongst them. But the well-deserved title had come at a cost._

 _The reigning and ruling cliques at Veritas were incredibly interesting from an anthropological point of view. Utterly unique from typical teenage-dwelling environments. They were not as fascinating when being victimised by them. Although academic achievement had ruled above all else, there was Shay Veritas._

 _She was consistently at the top of her year until Jane Foster had been sponsored by some Culver University professors (which were, also, required to be Veritas alumni in order to do so) and transferred. She could have hated Clark Swann, too, when he enrolled. But he was far too dreamy to dislike. He was way too cute to bully._

 _Clark was a ridiculously gorgeous hunk of male that it was necessary to remain on good terms with. He was an Upper East Side Clark in addition to bearing the incomparable shadow of Virgil Swann. And, he was sort of her neighbour. Their families had lived on the same block of Museum Mile. Hers were the inflexibly immovable, longstanding residents of 998 Fifth Avenue's ninth floor. His ancestors had nested in the Clark Manor House since it was erected in the Gilded Age._

 _In conclusion, it was just Jane who had been relegated to ruthless squashing under the Ferragamo heels of her frustrations. Shay was the – several mouthfuls of 'great' – granddaughter of the Veritas School founder. She had dealt with immense pressures at home because of that. She had hated that somebody was getting better grades than her. She had absolutely loathed Jane Foster._

* * *

"You want to us to build a facility located not far from the centre of the Earth?"

"Yes."

A condescending sigh had issued after the rolling of bright blue eyes. "Your request to present to the board is denied, Dr Veritas. Apologies."

 _"You are not apologetic whatsoever, you grudge-bearing ass!"_ was what Shay had wanted to say. She seriously wanted to smack the dispassionate boredom off of Clark Swann's irritatingly handsome face with her folders of data and research. Extensive piles of print which proved beyond any calculable doubt that green-lighting her grant was the smartest move. But she had to grin and bear the ultimate decision.

"Optimum fuerit ex duabus clarissimis" was the family motto. The phrase was engraved onto the Veritas School crest. "Best of the brightest" had been her mantra from the womb. That was where Shay had to work. S.T.A.R. Labs: the best of the brightest. Her job at the best of the brightest had exceedingly sucked for the last year. The Swann scion was no longer AWOL. The best friend of the girl she had verbally abused every single day in school her boss now. Karma could not have been more of a bitch.

* * *

The untalkative men in black had stolen every large and lit doohickie to every minute and unimpressively minuscule scrap Jane hauled with her to New Mexico. She, Darcy and Erik had dejectedly seated themselves on the flat roof's edge of their building.

"Years of research, gone."

"They even took my Q-Pod."

Erik was obstinate to find a sliver of hope. "What about the backups?"

"They took our backups. They took the backups of our backups," said a dejected Jane. "They were extremely thorough."

"Just downloaded, like, thirty songs onto there," Darcy had to point out.

"Could you please stop with your Q-Pod!" The wind had relentlessly whipped Jane's fine hair across her preoccupied pensiveness. It was nowhere near as much of an annoyance as what she had felt for S.H.I.E.L.D. Anger and irritation had steamed from her ears. "Who are these people? They're even more evasive than Clark ever was about – er, never mind."

Jane always had her suspicions when they were younger. The suspicion had increased once they started dating. The quick exits? The miraculous recoveries? The lame excuses? For the longest time, she just couldn't pin down exactly what it was that had made Clark Swann so… Clark. It was frustrating.

Her former frustrations with Clark were neck in neck with today's atrocity.

* * *

Erik had left for the local library to email a colleague who had previous dealings with these mysterious, faceless S.H.I.E.L.D. people. Jane had gone elsewhere, taking the van, without saying a word and biting down hard on her lower lip. Darcy was lackadaisically meandering around the tiny, dusty town on foot with intentions of finding a payphone.

She had fed the rusty metal slot a quarter. "Man, Jane is totally gonna kill me for this," Darcy thought aloud as she waited. "But she'll have to understand, right?" She repetitively tapped a brown leather boot on the sandy sidewalk. "I mean, the creepishly unexpressive army of Agent Smiths took my freaking Q-Pod!"

* * *

Clark was at home. He had put out a burning building downtown. He was in the process of ripping off his charred suit when he heard his cell phone ringing on his desk. At S.T.A.R. Labs. Not 1009 Fifth Avenue. He had to run back and forth in his star-spangled boxers. Embarrassingly, it wasn't the first time.

He had used his super-speed to change into whatever he'd recently gotten back from the cleaners before picking up on the unknown caller. "Hello?"

 _"Hey, C.K."_

"Darcy, hi. How are you?"

 _"Someone stole my Q-Pod."_

Clark's dark brows furrowed. "What?"

 _"Yeah, some Men In Black just randomly stormed into our digs and took everything."_

"Can I correctly assume that you're calling to ask for a favour in regard to this?"

 _"Duh."_

He had pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jane doesn't know about this, does she?"However, he had responded with inflections of humour rising from his throat.

 _"Nope."_

"Of course not," Clark laughed. "What can I do?"

 _"Do you still, oh, I dunno, happen to have some of those scientifical, astrological doohickies that you and Jane always seem to be tinkering on together?"_

"If you meant 'astrophysical', then yes."

"Cool."

* * *

Jane was driving the empty, equipment sparse van. Thor was there too, sitting next to her. They were on their way to the satellite crash site.

"I've never done anything like this before. OK, that's a bit of a lie. It's never been _my_ idea to do anything like this before," she incredulously admitted. "Have you ever done any-anything like this before?"

Thor nodded with a reflective smile. "Many times. You must be brave to have done such things." His gaze had settled on her.

Jane shrugged. "Not really. I wasn't the one with the hero complex."

"Then why now?"

"Well, they just stole my entire life's work," she said, looking to and fro from him to the road. "I don't really have much left to lose."

* * *

Clark and Oliver had exchanged manly bear hugs and pats of backs. They had said their goodbyes on the tarmac at Teterboro. The former was leaving for New Mexico with hulking metallic trunks containing personally made and modified scientific humdums and doodads. The latter had promised to keep an eye on his good friend's hometown for a while.

* * *

They were staking out the point of impact far off in the desert. High-wattage lights had lorded over the crash site like a sports stadium. Hundreds of metres surrounding the area had been fenced off. Covert government vehicles were crawling all over the place like ants on spilt syrup.

It had appeared as if E.T. had landed. Jane had caught herself searching for the men in the white hazmat suits through the pair of telescopic lenses. She had lain flat on the ground with her elbows propped up to support the binoculars.

"That's no satellite crash," disbelievingly exclaimed Jane. "They would have hauled the wreckage away. They wouldn't have built a city around it."

Thor had gotten up and was crouching. He removed the jacket she had generously provided for him. "You're going to need this." He had returned her kindness and draped the simple tan material over her tiny back.

"What? Wait, why?" She paused at looked up at the night sky. A storm had threatened them. The heavens had loudly rumbled.

"Stay here. Once I have Mjolnir, I will return the items they've stolen from you," Thor assured her calmly. "Deal?" He was grinning at the blanket of darkness above.

"No," she said immediately and succinctly. "Look what's down there. You think you're just gonna walk in, grab our stuff, and walk out?" She could not understand his thought process. His plan wasn't logical in the least. "You don't exactly have superhuman speed."

"No. I'm gonna fly out."

Thor had made yet another statement that she met with a befuddled brain and baffled, loosely hanging mouth. "Who do you think you are? Warrior Angel?"

"There is an angelic warrior who flies in this realm?" Thor had stopped in his tracks to glance behind him.

Jane had laughed, unassured. "In a comic book, sure."

* * *

Lightning had joined thunder's invitation in the tumultuous, greying clouds. The rumbling ruckus had stricken out especially deafening pounds. Down below, surrounding the metal object S.H.I.E.L.D. was surveying, electronic receivers and screens and drives had fuzzed and fluctuated and malfunctioned.

"Sir, feed from the keyhole can barely penetrate the cloud cover. Tech's barely working as it is with all the interference that thing's giving off," a technician informed his boss. "And we've got a commercial aircraft coming in right over us – Southwest Airlines, Flight 5434."

Jasper Sitwell had joined him with his hands pocketed. He had briefly inspected the data on display. "Reroute it, like all the others."

The technician did a double-take. "There's also a private plane not too far from approaching, sir, belonging to one …" he said while quickly typing, "Senator Swann of New York State."

Agent Sitwell knew that the Senator's presence tonight was an impossibility. "Who is actually _in_ that jet?"

The technician …

There was the clacking of fast typing again. "Definitely not the Senator, sir. She was just photographed at a charity gala in Washington, minutes ago."

Jasper was already aware of this. Secretary Pierce had escorted her to further negotiate their terms on working together. "Find out who is."

* * *

The plane ride had become very bumpy, the closer they'd advanced on his destination. Clark was worried. Not for himself. He had a Kryptonian body. He was all but indestructible in a solar system with a yellow sun. The lines of concern that had been drawn on his hardened face in the past five minutes were for the pilot.

Clark was immensely relieved when the plane had touched down safely. He had profusely thanked the pilot for making it through the storm with a cool head. He unearthed a wad of bills and asked if he'd prefer to stay in town until it passed.

After ensuring the pilot wouldn't be in harm's way on his return to the hangar in New Jersey, Clark began scouring the compact landscape of Puente Antiguo. He'd looked for the predominantly glass-walled building where Jane's intern had told him they were staying.

* * *

Jane was damp from the storm that Erik had picked her up in an hour before. She was swathed in a thick blanket and passionately arguing her case. "Well, magic's just science that we don't understand yet –"

"Arthur C. Clarke. Smart guy." A tall and handsome twenty-four year-old man in a Turnbull & Asser suit had entered the building. He carried a shipping crate's capacity of packed scientific equipment as if they were lightly loaded shopping bags.

Jane and Erik's argument had hit the pause button. The room had fallen silent. Everybody had turned their heads toward the source of the gentle yet undeniably masculine voice.

"Clark?" Jane was confused.

So was Erik. "Mr Swann?"

"Clark!" Darcy had pounced off her seat and didn't miss a beat. She had taken advantage of the opportunity to wrap her arms around her boss's too-polite-to-turn-it-down hunk.

If Clark didn't have his powers, he was sure that he'd have had trouble breathing by now. "Hey, Darcy. Dr Selvig. Jane." He had nodded with each name he'd spoken.

"Clark, what are you doing here?" Jane eyed the metallic storage trunks he had carried in.

"You know me." Clark grinned, "I'm always around."

Jane rolled her eyes.

* * *

 _"I hate this. I know that it was my idea. It makes sense – it's the logical thing to do. But I still hate this," said Jane sadly._

 _"Me too," Clark softly agreed. "But we'll still be in each other's lives. I promise."_

 _"You promise?"_

 _"You're my best friend, Jane. For you, I'll always be around."_

 _It was the summer before college. Jane had opted to stay with Clark and his family in New York City before returning to her hometown, Willowdale. Her old life. The life she had before her acceptance to the Veritas School. This time, however, she'd actually be taking classes at Culver. She wouldn't just be waiting around for her father to finish talking to students and collecting papers._

 _It had been surreal, waking up every morning with the Metropolitan Museum of Art's front steps as a view. Even without his abilities, even without his extraterrestrial origins, Clark's life was so very different from her own. What he had considered normal was out of this world. Whether it have been on Earth or Krypton._

 _"I guess it'll be easy for you. You've got super-speed …" Jane smiled sardonically. "And your family does have that fleet of jets …"_

 _Clark had backed up with his huge hands thrown in the air as if he was under arrest. "Not a fleet. All but a couple belong to S.T.A.R. Labs," he defensively corrected, higher than his usual pitch._

 _"Right, because an entire fleet would be far too ostentatious for a Swann."_

 _"You know it. I wouldn't want to cramp my style."_

 _Jane scoffed with laughter. "Style? What style?"_

 _"Are you making fun of the way I dress? Because, then, you'd be insulting my mom." The seventeen year-old almost-adult had pouted and crossed his solid, tree trunk arms._

 _"Professor Swann still buys your clothes for you?" She had shaken her head. "You're really not helping your case here, Clark."_

* * *

Erik had taken Thor to the only bar in this small New Mexico town after convincing S.H.I.E.L.D. to let him go. They needed to have a talk. And he had direly thirsted for an alcoholic beverage after dealing with the eerie intimidation of that particular government organisation.

Erik had liked Thor enough. He seemed like a good man. The problem was his questionable state of lucidity. "I don't know if you're delusional, or if you're pulling some kind of con. I don't care. I just care about her. I've seen the way she looks at you," Erik said solemnly and seriously. "She hasn't looked at anyone quite like that since she was a starry-eyed teenager."

Thor had felt the mood tense more than already was. "I swear to you, I mean her no harm," he promised.

"Good. In that case, I'll buy you another round." He remained grave. "And you'll leave town tonight."

Erik had given Thor a no-nonsense deadpan until he had nodded. There was a heavy, prolonged silence until the short stalemate had ended.

Erik had motioned to the bartender. "Two boilermakers!"

* * *

Clark was fixing up the unfinished tech he had brought with him to New Mexico. He had 'borrowed' Jane's van to collect the second and third loads from the plane. In actual fact, he simply ran.

They were in Jane's temporary settlement with all of the lights switched on. Darcy had borrowed Clark's Q-Pad. She was blasting modern pop music, which had filled the whole room. The beats had echoed off the hard floor and blank walls. The room was very empty because of everything S.H.I.E.L.D. had uninvitingly commandeered.

Clark had repositioned some circuitry when he'd spied a blonde mountain of a man outside. Through the window, he had seen him fireman carrying Erik over his huge shoulder.

"Uh, Darcy, should we be worried about that?" Clark had pointed to the interesting potentially worrying scene by Jane's caravan.

"What? Oh, nah," she said lightly. "That's Thor. Cool guy. You'll like him." Darcy had gone back to simultaneously conversing on multiple social media platforms.

"Right." Clark was still indecisive on how to set his level of alarm. He had peered at the pair with the assortment of optical superpowers he'd learnt and mastered during his time away. He had yet to fine tune this specific set of abilities whilst using them at the same time.

He'd accidentally x-rayed and zoomed in on a microscopic level as he had tried to use his telescopic vision with his night vision. Clark had seen something strange as he tried to control his out of focus visual abilities. The blond man's molecular makeup was unusual. It wasn't human. Intriguingly, it had a few odd similarities to his own. "Er, Darcy," he called over the music, "Where's he from?"

* * *

Clark meets Thor in the next morning when he is making breakfast; Clark is a little suspicious but remains friendly and willing to give this guy a chance

DARCY: So, how does a guy like you know how to cook? Don't you have 'people' for this kind of thing?

CLARK: My mom taught me. We never had house staff at home. We're very, er … [looks at Jane awkwardly] private people. Also, my Dad believed that money should be spent on more important things, like making the world a better place.

Moments before Thor's friends find them

CLARK: So, magnetic portals and aliens from outer space …" [feels immensely uncomfortable]

ERIK: It's a beautiful theory, Jane. You won't be able to convince the scientific community of any of it. Not without hard evidence.

[Loud knocking]

VOLSTAGG: Found you!

Clark, Jane, Erik and Darcy are all shocked. Erik drops his mug. Clark uses microscopic vision in addition to x-raying their molecular structure to see if it's the same as Thor's. It is. Sif and the Warriors Three enter. Thor rushes up and hugs Volstagg.

THOR: My friends!

VOLSTAGG: This is good! This is good!

ERIK: I don't believe it!

VOLSTAGG: Oh, excuse me. Lady Sif and the Warriors Three.

THOR: My friends, I have never been happier to see anyone. But you should not have come.

FANDRAL: We're here to take you home.

THOR: Y-you know I can't go home. My father is … dead because of me. I must remain in exile.

Clark feels a lot of empathy toward Thor. He always felt responsible for his father's death, as well as his quadriplegia.

* * *

On their way outside, Clark and Jane are having a heated but whispered, private discussion

CLARK: Jane, I have to do something.

JANE: You can't, Clark. I know this is going to be hard, but what about your secret?

CLARK: I have to help.

JANE: Whoa, Clark, take a step back for a second. Exposing yourself will not affect only you. What about your mom and your sister?

CLARK: [indecisive but stands his ground] It's not like our family has never been in the public eye.

JANE: Yeah, when the lens was predominantly focused on your mom and dad. Are you sure that you're ready to have all of your intimate details made into the banner headline? [said in irony; Jane remembers the article Darcy showed her yesterday]

CLARK: The world already knows who I am, Jane. [He was on the cover of every American business magazine when he turned twenty-one. They expected him to take over S.T.A.R. Labs due to Virgil Swann's reclusiveness. More unwarranted publicity was issued a few months later, after his dad died] Patty rang me about my 'in-depth' profile a friend of hers found in _GQ_ last month. So, what? I'll have a little less privacy. Tony Stark seems to have made the public dual identity work.

JANE: Do you honestly want to emulate Tony Stark, Clark?

[Clark's face falls but he shrugs]

* * *

 _TONY: Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, kid. You're making me start to doubt whether I'm still the smartest person in this room._

 _CLARK: Sorry, Mr Stark._

 _TONY: So, Swann, where bouts do you study?_

 _CLARK: Veritas._

 _TONY: The Veritas School. Here, in New York? Impressive. I almost went there myself. Would've, if I was patient enough not to switch to the fast-track lane. Wait, Veritas is a college-prep._

 _CLARK: Yes._

 _TONY: How old are you, kid?_

 _CLARK: "Fourteen._

 _TONY: So, you're still in high school but with a brain like yours? God, that sounds dead boring. Unless you stuck around for the parties. I would have, if I'd thought of all the possibilities at the time. Damn it, now I wish that I did. I've heard the greatest things about this one boarding school in Metropolis …_

 _[Clark looks lost and doesn't know what to do while Tony continues to talk to him about missed opportunities for nefarious exploits at boarding school. Jane sees Clark's face and giggles]_

 _TONY: … at Excelsior. Such a shame. All I'm saying is, take advantage of it while you can, kid. The 'I'm just a teenager' excuse has a depressingly inevitable expiration date._

 _[Clark is silent and still looks lost. There is a brief silence when Tony finishes his tangent]_

 _TONY: So, Swann, where'd you learn so much about mechanical engineering? I doubt that's what they teach you at prep school, even if it is Veritas._

 _CLARK: My father homeschooled me until seventh grade. I spent a fair bit of time on my own when I was younger, so I had to find a way to occupy my time._

 _TONY: Which would mean that Virgil Swann was aware of how smart his son was. And yet, you didn't graduate early or anything like that. That's interesting … or should I say, totally weird? Now, why would that be?_

 _CLARK: [feeling nervous, knows exactly why he was homeschooled for so long] My parents wanted me to, uh, have the opportunity to experience a normal childho―" [halts; realises his childhood wasn't normal at all] … a somewhat normal life, for as long as I could._

* * *

Clark and Jane have caught up to everyone else

THOR: Jane, you have to leave.

JANE: What are you gonna do?

THOR: I'm staying here.

VOLSTAGG: Thor is gonna fight with us.

THOR: My friends, I'm just a man. I'll only be in the way, or worse, get one of you killed. But I can help get these people to safety.

CLARK: [nods at Thor] I'll help.

JANE: Well, if you two are staying, then so am I.

THOR: We'll need some time.

FANDRAL: You'll have it.

[Group disperses]

* * *

The Destroyer blasts a building Clark was in; only Jane and Thor see this

THOR: Jane, your friend! [points to building just set on fire]

JANE: Oh, er … I should probably look more worried than I actually do, huh?

[Thor looks at Jane uncertainly.]

JANE: Don't worry, he'll be fine. Just, please, don't tell anyone about this.

THOR: [still confused but nods] You have my word, Jane Foster.

* * *

Clark is almost stark naked; his flesh is burnt off and he comes to an unpleasant realisation as it slowly heals

CLARK: I hate magic."

Clark super-speeds into a neighbouring clothing store and puts on pair of jeans, a red carhartt jacket, blue t-shit and some brown work boots that are available; he makes a mental note to reimburse the store at a later date

When Sif is blasted at for the second time by the Destroyer, Clark has returned to the scene and catches her

SIF: You're strong.

CLARK: You're correct.

SIF: Who are you?

CLARK: Cl― erm …" [realises he shouldn't have been able to do that so easily] … Kal-El.

SIF: Thank you for aiding me, Son of El. I am Lady Sif of Asgard.

CLARK: You're welcome.

SIF: You have gifts not normally bestowed upon the mortals of this realm. And your name, it is unusual. I have never heard anything like it. You must tell me from whence you came.

CLARK: That's a long story. [looks apologetic] Right now probably isn't the time to tell it.

SIF: My apologies. I concur.

Clark returns to the group; Darcy nods approvingly at Clark's appearance

DARCY: You know, C.K., not everyone can pull off the whole farm boy look. I approve. Five stars.

CLARK: Um, thanks?

Everyone is regrouping

FANDRAL: We need to fall back. Come on!

SIF: Come on.

JANE: Wait!

They turn back and see Thor has dropped his shield

JANE: "What's he doing?

Thor walks toward the Destroyer completely defenceless

CLARK: [whispers into Jane's ear] I should go, help him.

Jane turns her attention from Thor to Clark. She is torn.

CLARK: What am I supposed to do? Let him die?

Before Jane has the chance to speak, Clark goes after Thor

ERIK: Has everyone gone mad?

Thor is about to be hit by the Destroyer and Clark superspeeds to intercept the blow

CLARK: Ouch. That hurt. I really hate magic.

Clark punches the Destroyer down the street

SIF: He is stupendously strong.

DARCY: Um, Jane, what just happened?

Erik is silently stunned; the Warriors Three nod, impressed, as is Thor

The Destroyer returns and blasts the street, trying to hit Clark; Clark is eventually hit; while he is healing, the Destroyer maintains the enchanted fire blast and pummels him

ERIK: He's not dead yet?

JANE: Impossible.

DARCY: I know, right!

JANE: No, I mean that he-h-he's not getting up. He's hurt! He never gets hurt. [tears up]

Thor sees Jane is upset and the beating Clark is taking; he goes up to fight the Destroyer again, uncaring of the consequences in his mortal form; Clark is unconscious; the rest plays out same as film; when Thor creates the tornado, Sif and the Warriors Three retrieve Clark's body, which is slowly healing

After Thor has defeated the Destroyer

THOR: We must go to the Bifrost site. I will have words with my brother.

COULSON: Excuse me! [approaches Thor] Donald, I don't think you've been completely honest with me.

THOR: Know this, Son of Coul: you and I, we fight for the same cause – the protection of this world. From this day forward, you can count me as your ally, _if_ you return the items you have taken from Jane –

JANE: Stolen!

COULSON: Borrowed. Of course you can have your equipment back. You're gonna need it to continue your research.

THOR: Would you like to see the bridge we spoke of?

JANE: Um … [looks at Clark]

ERIK: Go, Jane. We'll look after him.

JANE: [looks back at Thor] Well, then …Uh, sure!

Thor takes off to the skies with Jane in tow

COULSON: Wait! I need to debrief you!

Agent Coulson turns his attention to a fully healed and now stirring Clark – who he recognises as Clark Swann; S.H.I.E.L.D. had also been able to make an educated guess beforehand as to who was using one of Senator Swann's private jets, since flight logs showed that it took off at Teterboro Airport; the wind from Thor's takeoff woke Clark

COULSON: [looks at Clark] "Mr Swann, I assume?

CLARK [eyes flutter open] What happened?

SIF: The Son of El, he awakens!

DARCY: Huh?

Clark gives explanations about himself to Erik, Darcy, Sif and the Warriors Three on their way to the Bifrost site to join Thor and Jane

CLARK: I wasn't born anywhere near New York. In fact, I wasn't born anywhere near this galaxy.

DARCY: OK … OK, so that would then make you, like, an …

CLARK: Yeah.

ERIK: But you look, you look so …

CLARK: Human? [met with silence] I'm still the same person. [more silence]

DARCY: That is so cool! Do you come from wherever these guys do? [indicates Sif and the Warriors Three]

CLARK: No. I am – I was from another planet. It's called Krypton. It's light-years away, and my parents sent me here to save me. They sent me to Earth just before Krypton was destroyed.

ERIK: My word.

DARCY: Whoa.

SIF: Raoheim!

VOLSTAGG: Krypton? The Forbidden Realm?

FANDRAL: The _Forgotten_ Realm, you dolt! It hasn't been 'Forbidden' for nearly a quarter century.

The Asgardians are about to leave Earth; while Jane and Thor are saying their goodbyes, so are Clark and Sif

SIF: It was an honour to meet you, Last Son of Raoheim.

CLARK: [deciding to screw bothering with a secret identity around these people] You can just call me Clark.

SIF: I prefer Kal.

After the Asgardians have left, Clark puts a comforting arm around Jane and they all walk back to the truck

CLARK: You really care about him, don't you?"

Jane just solemnly smiles and leans into Clark's side

Back in Asgard, Sif sees a silently pining Thor pass her; she feels a mixture of sadness for him and a bit for herself, because of the unrequited feelings she has for Thor – which were much lesser than she expected; Sif thinks about Thor's mortal, Jane Foster, and then her thoughts shift to Kal-El; she smiles to herself upon reflection of the Last Son of Raoheim, until she remembers that the Bifrost is no more

SIF: My Queen, I'm so sorry for your loss.

FRIGGA: How is he?

SIF: He mourns for his brother. And … he misses her. The mortal.

FRIGGA: And you, my dear? You have appeared somewhat … _changed_ , since your journey to Midgard.

SIF: We met an extraordinary being on the Earthly plane. Someone from the Forgotten Realm.

FRIGGA: Raoheim? There was a survivor?

* * *

Thor approaches Heimdall on the broken Bifrost

THOR: So, Earth is lost to us?

HEIMDALL: No. There is always hope. Perhaps a brighter hope than this universe has ever seen.

THOR: What is your meaning?

HEIMDALL: Her friend.

Thor looks confused.

HEIMDALL: The one who fought the Destroyer. The Kryptonian.

THOR: A Kryptonian? On Earth? I thought them extinct.

HEIMDALL: One survived. A boy. A son of the House of El.

THOR: Can you see them?

HEIMDALL: Yes.

THOR: How is she?

HEIMDALL: She searches for you.

THOR: Wait. You can see Raoheim's Last Son? I thought Kryptonians impossible for you to see.

HEIMDALL: The boy's body remains untouched by his race's genetic modifications.

THOR: What of him since my departure?

HEIMDALL: He has committed himself to Lady Foster's cause."

* * *

Clark, Jane, Erik and Darcy are still collecting data in New Mexico

ERIK: Where did I put those particle detectors?

CLARK: [shouts from outside] "I already packed them!

ERIK: Darcy, do you have the S.H.I.E.L.D. and SWANNSTAR satellite codes?

DARCY: Yeah. Have you seen my taser?

CLARK [has since climbed into the driver's seat] In the truck!

ERIK: Come on, Jane.

Jane gets in the car

CLARK: Finally! Jeez, Jane. You're slower than Barry on a _bad_ day!

* * *

Clark is visiting Jane at Culver University, helping with her research

JANE: You know, Clark, you don't have to stay. I know you have a big, fancy job now.

CLARK: You get perks when you're the boss. Doing as I please is one of them.

JANE: As much as I love having my best friend around and all the extra help, I don't need my hand held, Clark.

CLARK: What if my frequent presence is because I wanted to spend more time with my grandma?

JANE: That's your lame excuse for the day? You forget that I already know your family, Clark.

Clark has just finished giving Jane a rational, reasonable reason why he is in West Virginia so often

CLARK: Well? What do you think?

JANE: I think that I was doing just fine without you, Clark.

CLARK: You've always had trouble accepting my help.

JANE: No. I've always had trouble accepting your handouts.

Clark and Jane are still amiably arguing when Darcy walks in

CLARK: That was a legitimate grant from S.T.A.R. Labs, Jane. The entire board said they still probably would've funded your research, even if I hadn't personally shown them your proposal.

JANE: That's exactly my point! You used the words 'personally' and 'probably' in that sentence.

CLARK: Probably, as in, _probably_ in your favour.

JANE: You know that I've never been comfortable with accepting money from you, Clark.

DARCY: Oo! I am!

CLARK: That reminds me … [gets out something from his bag] I know they returned everything, but I kinda already picked up something on my way to the Land of Enchantment …

DARCY: The new Q-Pod! [chucks away old one]

* * *

 _Flashback to Oliver's Queen's announcement of Queen Industries' new Q-Core division a short while after the return from his missing castaway years and temporary AWOL status twelve months subsequent to that_

* * *

Oliver is making the last of his rounds in New York City, returning stolen, priceless artefacts from shady corporate tycoons; Green Arrow is regularly making the local headlines at present

* * *

Clark has been in West Virginia with Jane for the past week; Agent Coulson arrives to debrief Clark Swann

COULSON: Dr Swann, may I speak to you for a moment?

CLARK: Sure, Mr …

COULSON: Agent Coulson, with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.

[Clark raises eyebrows]

COULSON: S.H.I.E.L.D.

[Everyone slowly nods; Agent Coulson carefully eyes all those in the room who aren't Clark]

CLARK: [sees where Agent Coulson's eyes have roamed] It's fine. They already know everything about me.

DARCY: Oh, yeah. We know all about C.K.'s super-duper powers, the fact that he's an alien –"

CLARK: I prefer 'intergalactic traveller'.

JANE: I'm sorry. What?

CLARK: [lost in his own thoughts] I didn't remember to tell you what happened after you left for the skies that day, did I …

JANE: You never told me that you told everybody your secret!

CLARK: Not _everyone_ …

[Clark has told Jane everything that happened; Jane is in a flustered huff and has just slapped Clark; they had just finished arguing]

CLARK: Feel better now?

JANE: No. My hand hurts.

CLARK: Sorry.

[Clark reaches for a half-full plastic water bottle, blows on it with his arctic breath, wraps it in his sky blue, Egyptian cotton overshirt which he takes off and hands it to Jane; everyone in the room is speechless]

JANE: You never told me you had a new ability, either!

CLARK: I learnt a few things while I was away.

JANE: I see.

ERIK: I'll say.

DARCY: Hey, Clark, my soda's gotten a little warm.

[Jane and Erik roll their eyes as Clark blows on Darcy's soda]

COULSON: Listen, guys, as entertaining as this has been, I need to debrief Dr Swann.

[Everyone waits and looks at him expectantly]

COULSON: In a more private location.

[Eyebrows are raised; they are alone in Jane's personal, private workspace]

COULSON: Alone.

[Jane is annoyed]

* * *

[Clark followed Agent Coulson to his car; they drive to an abandoned warehouse]

COULSON: Your debriefing will begin shortly, Mr Swann. Please, have a seat.

CLARK: Thanks, Agent Coulson.

[Agent Coulson leaves; Clark is alone]

CLARK: Just to debrief _you_ , if your men plan to kill me, it probably won't work. My skin is kinda tough. I can blink pretty fast, too.

FURY: Oh, we know." [new voice emerges from darkness; footsteps draw near] "You're the Good Samaritan, the invisible saviour that's been popping up around the globe since '08."

[Clark purses his lips]

FURY: Don't look so alarmed, Dr Swann. We've been tracking the planet's _unique_ oceanic and atmospheric shifts for quite some time. Yours is merely another face on another dot that we've connected.

[Fury drops a manila folder emblazoned with a shield on the table, facing himself and not Clark; Clark reads the cover aloud anyway]

CLARK: _Avengers Initiative: Candidacy Screening_ …

FURY: I don't think that's something you need to concern yourself with at present.

CLARK: [decides to be trusting for now] All right. So, what _do_ I need to be concerned about at the moment?

FURY: We, at S.H.I.E.L.D., have tried to do a little digging on you since the incident in New Mexico, Dr Swann. We hit colossal roadblocks at nearly every turn. Seems like someone with near endless resources and a brilliant mind put a lot of effort into hiding your tracks. Someone like the late Dr Swann.

[S.H.I.E.L.D. also had an eye on Dr Swann in the past; Clark's jaw is clenched]

FURY: S.H.I.E.L. Uncle Sam's anti-terrorism intelligence agency, who would like to get a few facts straightened out.

CLARK: [forces to keep his face impassive, unwilling to give everything away] Such as?

FURY: The 1989 meteor shower in Smallville, Kansas. Research has shown that your family –

CLARK: – will not be involved in … whatever you want me for, whatever _this_ is. [tempted to x-ray the manila folder]

FURY: Wouldn't dream of it. Patricia Margaret Swann, abroad for the last decade, is an upstanding American citizen. As is your mother – Martha Hudson Swann, current US Senator for the state of New York – who is also doing good work in Washington. S.H.I.E.L.D. has no desire to impede on that.

[Clark feels rising stress alleviate; Fury notices this and continues to try to gain his trust]

FURY: Your maternal grandparents are deceased and of no relevance or interest to us. Your paternal set and the rest of your relatives, however … well, the list goes on and on. [coughs; there is a good reason why he doesn't expand] They need no further mention at this juncture. Nor does your father. Ah, yes. Dr Virgil Swann. He was a genius. A visionary. A great man.

CLARK: [smiles at mention of his father] My family will be safe? They won't be targeted or affected if I cooperate?

FURY: I'm not gonna lie about this. I can't make any definitive promises. The world has become a strange place. But I can assure you, S.H.I.E.L.D. has already issued details to ensure they won't be in harm's way. That deal good enough for you, Mr Swann?

[Clark nods]

FURY: Now we've gotten that cleared out of the way, your tongue willing to loosen up a little?

CLARK: [sighs in reluctant acceptance; Fury hasn't clearly confirmed or denied anything yet, but it's too late to back out now] What do you want to know – but, first, I'd like to know who it is that I am talking to.

FURY: Nick Fury, Mr Swann. Director Nick Fury.

Clark informs Director Fury of everything except the knowledge of his Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic, the source of his powers and his weaknesses

* * *

Clark returns to Jane's workroom on the Culver University campus

JANE: I may have cooled off, but don't think you're out of hot water, buddy.

CLARK: It kinda slipped my mind …

JANE: We've been working together for weeks and you never said anything.

CLARK: How about I make it up to you?

JANE: You can try.

CLARK: I think I have just the thing to succeed in this endeavour.

[Clark takes Jane to his Fortress of Solitude]


End file.
